John Christopher by A Journey South

Author:A Journey South [South, A Journey]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2011-12-14T21:36:38+00:00

Traporti talked without prompting of his life. It was a full one in summer, with the tourists, the hotel and two restaurants, shops, Bird-servicing station, information centre. In the winter it was quieter, but he found enough to occupy him. He hunted still. His eye was not what it had been, but on the other hand game was more plentiful every year.

“My freezer is well stocked,” he said. “Tonight I shall make you an arrosto misto della caccia. You remember? With a Montepulciano wine.”

Starmer went to the window. The piazza was pink and white in sunlight, its stones quivering with heat, the tower standing phallic guard. Once the air had echoed with the cries of Ghibelline and Guelph, in that long struggle against Florence during which the Sienese began building a cathedral to outshine all in Christendom, to the glory of God and the City of the Wolf.

Until the Black Death came, putting an end both to the patriotic struggle and religious ambition. Yet for centuries after that the city had gone on living, with generations being born, begetting, giving way to new.

He called back to Traporti: “Wasn’t there talk of reviving the Palio?

Nothing came of it?”

“No. And it would have been wrong. Preserving buildings is one thing, resurrecting a horse race quite another. The Palio belongs to the past. It is best left to the authenticators.”

They sat over the dinner table, against a window, as dusk enfolded the city. They were well down the second bottle of wine. Traporti asked: “If I had not found you in the Museo, would you have looked for me?”

Starmer paused before answering, truthfully: “I don’t know.”

“Perhaps providence directed my steps. I visit my Duccios often, but not every day. It is more than a week since I was there last.”

Starmer stared out silently. The air was full of swallows, clouds of them sweeping round in their final mass flight before settling for the night. A single figure walked down the slope of the piazza and two others, male and female, stood close together by the fountain. The tower was sharp-edged against a purpling sky that held a single star. Water sparkled, gushing from the wolf’s stone mouth into the basin where a late loitering pigeon fluffed its feathers.

“So beautiful,” Traporti said.

“Yes.”

“A beauty of which one does not tire. And to share it is to enjoy it the more. I miss Pia most at such a time as this, when we sat together at the day’s end. It has been longer for me than you, of course. One grows accustomed. But to some things, never.”

Starmer sipped his wine. Undeniably there was peace here, for anyone with the will to claim it.

Traporti said: “You are a young man still, Michael. To me, at least. What will you do with your life?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Go back to your garden?”

“I destroyed it, before I left.”

“You could make another?”

“I suppose so.”

When, after a pause, Traporti spoke again, it was in a more earnest tone.

“Listen, Michael. Why not stay with me? We have each lost life’s companion.

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